


it doesn't hurt at all

by ehhhchimatsu



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Blood, Bullying, Family Bonding, Gen, I'm adding some of these tags for later just as a warning, Latino Rick, Rick Being an Asshole, Self-Harm, eventually, that's an actual tag wow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-04-23 11:25:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4874908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ehhhchimatsu/pseuds/ehhhchimatsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Morty starts acting weird (weirder than usual, in Rick's opinion), Rick starts to get snoopy towards his grandson. Not that he cares. But he needs Morty in tip top shape for adventures. Yeah.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

As Rick padded up the stairs, he found the bathroom door to be closed with light from the inside spilling out underneath it, illuminating the plush carpeting. Seeing how it was - squinting at his watch to see in the low light - almost three o'clock in the morning, it was more than a bit strange.

He rapped on the door once with his knuckles, and heard a gasp come from inside. 

"Morty? What's got you - what are you up so late, f-for?" he called through the door.

Scrambling could be heard from inside the bathroom. "U-ughhhh...!" Morty stammered, more shuffling around. "J-j-just had to go to the bathroom! All that - all that water I drank at dinner, haha...! I'll be out in a m-minute, Rick, don't come in!"

Rick knew shady when he heard it and rolled his eyes. The hormonal kid was probably just in there jerkin' it to the fantasies he had in that mind of his. He'd rather the kid flush his load down the toilet than have his daughter constantly laundering stiff blankets, though.

"Ye-eugh-ah, whatever, Morty, just get - just hurry it up in there, will ya. Grandpa's stayed up late again and hasn't had a bowel movement in four days."

At that, the door swung open and a very disheveled-looking Morty came out, a sweatshirt and loose pajama bottoms hanging loosely on his scrawny frame. He barely even glanced at his grandpa as he passed him, just giving him a quick, "It - It's all yours then."

As Morty disappeared and Rick went into the bathroom, he muttered, "Lil' shit gets embarrassed when he's caught with his pants - with his pants down around his ankles a-and his hand on his dong. What a tool."

After he did his business - he'd lied to Morty about the bowel movement thing - he was washing his hands at the sink when he noticed something out of place.

Just near the faucet, a small area of smudged blood stood out among the white porcelain. "That - That boy can't keep his body fluids to himself, probably scratched at one of his zits and blew the - the thing sky-eugh-high," he commented under his breath, wetting a piece of toilet paper to scrub the mark off.

After throwing the used toilet paper in the small trash bin that occupied the bathroom, he flipped the light off, starting to make his way downstairs.

Not before he glanced, smirking, towards Morty's room, holding back a snicker. He remembered when he was a teenager, back before his father and him moved to America. Morty had it easy compared to him - Rick had had to not only deal with the shitty hormones that came from puberty, but he'd also dealt with learning English (not that that was so hard for a genius like him) and his father bringing a new lay into the house every night, his drunken escapades ruining his concentration on whatever invention Rick was working on at the time.

With that thought, he made his way downstairs, using his muscle memory to make it down, heading back to the garage to continue working on his latest project. 

He pulled out his flask, knocking it back and lulling himself into a trance as he continued to work through the night.


	2. Chapter 2

With the sound of Morty's alarm came the pain of waking up on a normal day. His limbs all stung, and the loose clothing that he wore felt too, too tight against his slender frame.

He took a long moment to just lay there in bed, bringing his thoughts together as best he could and mentally preparing himself for the school day ahead.

Swinging himself out of bed, he made his way over to the closet to retrieve clothes - it was October, thank God, leaving him free to wear the baggiest, most concealing clothes he had without being questioned.

At least that was one thing he didn't have to worry about getting harassed for at school for a while.

 

While walking out of his own room, Rick almost bumped into Morty, who was stepping out the bathroom fully clothed, his curly hair wet.

"Hey, uh, Morty," Rick started, spooking the boy as he rested his hand on his shoulder. Reaching into his lab coat, he took a swig from his flask before continuing. "Will you - can yo-eurghh-u try to stop picking at your zits late at night? I had to wipe up pimple blood last night in the bathroom, Morty, and it was dis- it was disgusting, Morty. Keep it in your face, okay?"

Morty's eyes went wide briefly, before he stuttered out a, "Y-y-yeah, Rick. Yeah. Can - can do. Sorry." He tried to quickly escape from his grandfather's loose hold on his shoulder, heading for the stairs, but Rick stopped him, turning him around so that they faced eachother. 

It was obvious to Rick that something was up. Morty was being more evasive than usual, which wasn't a strange occurrence, but that mainly happened only when they were being chased by some alien creature in a different universe. 

Rick sighed before he started talking, a long inhale and exhale of breath that sounded how he felt. "Are you o- are you alright, Morty? You're acting re-eugrhhh-eeal weird. Is something - is something up?" He paused for a long moment, closing his eyes, before finally a mirthful chuckle escaped past his lips. He opened his eyes once more to stare hard at his grandson. "It's been a while, but I was a - I was a teenager once, too, Morty. Probably had a lot more alcohol in my system, b-uuuugh-ut I still went through all the bullshit hormonal stages."

Morty visibly squirmed underneath his grandfather's gaze, but answered back with an almost-confident-sounding, "No, Rick. Every - Everything's fine. I'm just in a rush because, I-I-I woke up a little late."

Reluctantly and with much hesitance, Rick retracted his hand from his grandson. "Al-Alright, Morty. I'm trusting you on this. Okay, dawg?"

At this, Morty cracked a (very forced, as Rick observed) smile, nodding. "Yeah, dawg. We good?"

Rick flashed a smirk and ruffled the boy's damp hair. "Yeah, we good. Now hurry up and go get some breakfast, ya lil' shit. I smell Beth's pancakes." 

He didn't have to tell Morty twice. As Morty bounded off down the stairs, Rick took out his flask once more and took a drink while he watched Morty descend.

He planned on getting to the bottom of whatever was wrong. If Morty kept up the little act during adventures, it was going to get him distracted, and put him at the risk of being at the wrong end of a laser gun.

He didn't think he could handle that.


	3. Chapter 3

The school bell signified the ending of math class, and Morty was the first to dash from his seat in the back out the door. 

It didn't help much with his school troubles, but the sooner he could get his book and binder for his next class, the nearer to his next teacher he would be. And, even if the teachers never helped him out in any way, not wanting to be a part of anything if it turned into a legal battle, they could at least be witnesses if any of his abusers ever accidentally killed or seriously injured him. 

He could see it now, headlining the town's newspaper - "Local Jock Beats Aggressive Local Half-Latino Student Into Coma". It was always easier to blame the low-grade, unsociable minority than the straight-A's, All-American athlete. 

He's sure his parents would love to see that, and love to see the hospital bills even more. 

Right as Morty got to his locker, kids started really piling out of the classrooms, and he gulped out of anxiety. 

It would be cliché to say that everyone in the school talked about him behind his back - he had already been on that end of the stick, and, as any news or gossip is, as soon as there's something else to talk about, it moves on. Bigger and better things to talk about other than that loner kid with the scars who gets beat up a few times a week.

Speak of the devil. As Morty slammed his locker, supplies under one arm, he saw his most frequent bully walking up to him, with a purposeful look in his eye. 

There was no point in running or hiding. That's one thing Morty had learned not to do, as it only made things worse, and instead he had learned to, just. Let it happen. It was really easier to get it over with. 

"Hey, chump," his bully - Bret, he remembered, a stereotypical jock name he thought - called out as he slid up alongside Morty. 

Bret was tall, and blonde, and the definition of asshole. He loomed over Morty, several growth spurts ahead of him, taller than Morty would probably ever be. 

The phrase "pick on someone your own size" often crossed Morty's mind when he saw him approaching. 

"H-h-hey, Bret. W-w-what brings you around here, huh?" Even though this same scene had played out dozens of times before this encounter, Morty was always nervous about the first moment of pain. It was something he'd come to expect in his life - at school, while with Rick, when he was by himself - but the first bout of pain was always nerve-wracking.

Bret sniffed, a smirk that made his handsome face twist ugly appearing. "Quit stallin', I wanna get to class early so I can maybe make out with Jessica a bit." Not only was he an asshole, but he had also managed to date Jessica, the girl of Morty's wildest dreams and fantasies, and also a saint among angels. How he did it when he was such a dick amazed Morty. "Ya got any money for me? In the pockets of that oversized sweater you're always wearin' to cover them scars?"

Morty never really ate lunch at school, finding the cafeteria to be a danger zone for himself, but he did always keep a few bucks on hand just for times like these.

Setting down his supplies and reaching into his sweatshirt pockets, Morty pulled out about seven dollars, and fifty cents worth of loose change. 

Bret's arm lashed out, snatching the money and then simultaneously managing to give Morty a rough jab in the gut, pulling an "ooph!" from him as he shut his eyes as a result of the sharp pain, the punch knocking him back into the lockers behind him.

It was times like this where Morty really missed his old bully, at the beginning of highschool. Waving around knives with threats of cutting off various limbs and parts was more appealing than actual violence aimed toward him. Ironic, Morty thought bitterly, that he would prefer sharp weapons to fists. 

Snickers could be heard from Bret, and as Morty opened his eyes again, his face apathetic, he could see various students passing by either joined in, whispered, or looked away as they traveled in packs to their classes. A teacher, surveying the area from the doorway of a classroom a few yards down, looked at the scene with only a hint of guilt. It happened too often for him to be surprised anymore, Morty imagined.

As Bret pushed Morty once more (and called him some name that fell onto deaf ears), and began to walk away, Morty could only stare down hard at his supplies, still on the hallway floor, and wish that he were home so he could take the anguish away.

He hurt.

 

As Bret turned and walked away from the scene - from Morty -, Rick looked on with blatant disgust and seething written all across his face. His blunt nails practically dug into the concrete wall of the corner he was hiding behind, and it took all of his mental willpower to not chase down that monster at that moment. 

But at that moment, he had to comfort his grandson. Or at least get him out of this hellhole. Preferably both. 

But, Rick also didn't want to alert Morty and have him know that he just watched that exchange, because he figured that would only mess the kid up more. He really did not want to fuck this up further. 

So, Rick begrudgingly waited until Morty finally came out of his stupor, sighing and picking his materials up from the floor as he made his way to his next class.

His next class would have to be cut a bit short.

 

It was barely fifteen minutes into chemistry when Rick burst through the door, thoroughly silencing the teacher and any chitchat that was going on.

The loud noise of the door slamming against the worn-down door stopper jarred Morty from his daydreaming, yanking him into the harsh coldness of reality, and his brows furrowed, looking to where his grandpa stood at the door.

"Rick, w-w-what are you doing here?" 

The teacher, a new employee to Harry Herpson High School, wasn't familiar with Morty's grandfather like the rest of the faculty was, but she had heard the stories that floated around the teacher's lounge.

She decided to not get into it.

Rick took a few long strides to Morty's desk, ushering him from his seat. "No - no time to talk, Morty. We gotta - i-it's a family emergency. Serious shit. W-w-we have to go now, c'mon."

Rick grabbed Morty's stuff as he led Morty out the door, Morty closing it behind them.

He was almost happy to see Rick, and be pulled out of school, but on the other hand he really wasn't feeling up to an adventure - his arms stung from his endeavours the night before, and he was sure his stomach had a bruise on it, to match the other bruises dotting his body.

"I-I-I don't really feel like going on an - an adventure right now, ya know, Rick? I just, it's just tha-"

Rick cut Morty off, slowing his pace to match his shorter-legged grandson, and glanced behind him. "No adventure right - today, Morty. Your ol' grandpa thought that - he figured that you needed a day off."

Morty stopped in his tracks, causing Rick to stop too, turning around fully. "W-why did you stop wal-"

"That sounds r-really suspsicious, Rick." He narrowed his eyes, accusatory.

Rick only rolled his eyes, grabbing Morty by the shoulder and gently shoving the kid in front of him. "I'm serious. We're just gonna go home a-a-and do whatever - whatever you want, Morty."

What Morty wanted to do wasn't an activity he really wanted Rick to participate in, he thought as he glanced down at his clothed forearms, but he remained silent, only giving a slight shrug and continuing to walk out to the parking lot.

Rick inwardly sighed, following the kid outside. 

The spaceship was parked right in front of the double doors leading out, and they got into their respective sides of the flying vehicle, Rick starting the ignition with heavy thoughts on his mind and desperate questions on his tongue.

Flying away from the school, only high enough to clear the various trees dotting the city, both were completely silent. Morty could sense a tension in the air, though. A glance at Rick confirmed it for him, almost. He looked serious.

And he sounded serious, too, when he cleared his throat, tentatively asking, "Morty?" He didn't have to look at him to know that Rick was looking at him intensely, with purpose.

Morty almost didn't want to reply. He felt uneasy. That wasn't a good tone of voice. He knew. He knew. He - He was going to puke, he was, he - "Yeah, Rick?" Morty stared straight ahead, attempting to keep the nausea at bay.

A pause, and the only thing Morty could hear in the silence was his heart thumping wildly in his chest. 

"What did that Bret mean by you covering scars?"

The nausea overcame him.

Time stood still.

He knew.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After almost four months, I present chapter four!!
> 
> I'm super sorry. Between work and college and other fics and what little social life and motivation I have, it's hard.
> 
> Hope ya guys like it.
> 
> If ya wanna talk, hit my tumblr up at:  
> the-gast-and-the-furious.tumblr.com

Morty wanted to die. He felt like death.

This couldn't have been real.

He knew. Rick knew about the scars. He was questioning him about them. He hadn't seen them, but it was only a matter of time.

Rick knew, and soon his whole family would - he was sure of it.

His whole world had just came crashing down on him and all he could do was wipe the vomit from his mouth with his shirt as he openly sobbed in the passenger seat of his grandfather's aircraft. He felt pathetic.

Worthless.

Almost immediately after his outburst, the hand holding his shirt to his chin was being gently gripped, pulled away. Everything was blurry, and wet in his view. He felt something being draped around him, but the only sound that could be heard was his violent crying.

 

Rick didn't know what to do. 

It was an unusual feeling, one he had only ever felt a few handful of times in his life - when he was about seventy-some years younger and his parents would fight nightly before they separated, when he realized that his relationship with his wife wasn't working out (or so he always told himself, willing back painful memories) and he had to leave his daughter behind.

His fingers itched for his flask, but he restrained himself. 

He had to be there for Morty.

He glanced over at him - his shirt was covered in bile, his face blotchy red and contorted from sobbing, and Rick's own lab coat was draped neatly over his shoulders.

He wasn't sure why he had done the gesture. But it seemed like it would maybe comfort the kid. He hadn't realized just how much the question would affect him. 

Rick wasn't a patient man and - and he knew this. But the way Morty was acting at the moment, he figured he owed him this moment to calm down, to explain himself.

Especially if what he suspected was true.

He preferred to think that other people had been giving his lanky grandson scars - at least then, some form of revenge could be gotten, some type of payback could be dealt upon those assholes. 

But if Morty was... He pushed that thought aside. If it came to that, he could talk to Morty about that. He had to. But it still didn't make the thought any more bearable.

His fingers itched once more for his flask, but he held back the urge. 

For Morty.

 

Negative thoughts were wandering through Morty's mind as his sobs began to lessen. Everything could be okay - would be okay. Lie to the end and then make everything feel better when he got home. Yeah.

That sounded like a solid plan.

Except he wasn't good at lying, especially to Rick. He knew him too well. He could tell, when his stutter reared its ugly little head up too much, when he was particularly anxious, when adrenaline from the action of spitting out fake truths got to be too much.

He was running out of time. His involuntary crying was slowly coming to a halt, and then he would have to actually talk.

Morty wiped at his blurry eyes, blinking away some of the last of the stinging tears. He tried to take long, deep breaths, but it all came out wrong - was he choking on air? No, no no no, he wasn't - he just had to calm down. Think of an excuse. There it is - a little too raspy, and a bit more than uneven, but deep breaths. Think of an excuse. 

Startled out of his thoughts, he practically jumped when he felt a hand on his back, rubbing slow, surprisingly gentle circles through layers of clothing. He looked over to spot Rick, his eyes straight ahead, steering with one hand, and without his lab coat. A glance at Morty's own shoulder showed where the labcoat had gone - he grasped the sides of it, clenching it closer like a safety blanket. 

Everything was going to be okay.

Another stolen glance at Rick told him that he was going to be patient. For however long, he didn't know, but the set frown dragging the corners of his mouth downward told him that he had enough time for at least a few more breaths before Rick would say anything else. Ask anything else.

Because of course he would want an explanation after that little episode. He couldn't get away scot-free from this, and they both knew that it was only a matter of minutes.

 

He could feel the teen glancing his way, but he didn't dare to meet his eyes, even as he rubbed small circles between his shoulder blades, hopefully calming the teen down some.

It only took a few seconds until he did dare to look into his eyes, though.

"Morty," he breathed out, cogs turning in his mind grumpily. A thought struck him, just as Morty flinched from his name being spoken. "How- how about some icecream, eh?" He looked over at Morty, who was still clenching the lab coat with white knuckles, and met his eyes as he gave him the softest smile he could.

"I-I-Icecream...? Rick, I-I-I really don't - don't wanna go to another planet - or, or, or, dimension, right now..." Morty looked down and to the side, head hanging low as he eventually got his intended words out.

Rick's hand left his back as the ship began to lower, landing on the ground with only a slight jostle. 

"Don't worry, M-Morty, there are actual icecream places on earth, too, ya know, bud." 

Morty only replied with a curt, almost-missed nod.

They had landed in the park, where across the street was a year-round icecream shop. Not the best one, Rick could attest to that, but maybe it would calm his grandson down a bit before they had to get into the heavy shit. 

Maybe he was stalling some time for himself, too.

Before they could exit the vehicle, though, Rick stopped Morty. 

"You might, uh - might wanna get rid of your sweatshirt first, Morty. It's covered in puke, cuate. Just button my lab coat up."

The fear that crossed Morty's face once more was evident, and Rick knew he had fucked up when he started stuttering incoherently.

Rick needed to salvage this, quick. Before Morty started crying again or something. That was hard to handle.

Thank whatever God that's out there that he was good under pressure. "I-It's okay, Morty! God, I'll," he licked his lips, looking to the side for a moment and coming up with a simple fix on the spot to ease the boy, "- I'll look away if you're so self conscious, okay?" He held back the need to mention that he had seen Morty naked more than a few times through their adventures. But the words seemed to null the boy, and he nodded, a bit unsure.

Rick turned his head, closing his eyes. He didn't like the situation. He was sure that Morty was hiding something bad. The kid was an open book usually. It had to be something that he couldn't even tell his own grandpa. 

"O-okay," Morty stuttered out, and Rick turned to see him throwing his soiled sweatshirt in the back of the ship, clad now in Rick's lab coat. The Fall weather wasn't too chilly yet, so it would do enough to protect him from the cold.

Without further ado, they both got out of the ship, Rick following closely behind Morty as they crossed the street and entered the icecream shop, the chime on the door announcing their arrival.

They were the only two in there besides a bored-looking employee behind the counter. Not surprising, considering that even though they were open year-round, their business quickly dwindled once the leaves started littering the ground and everything turned brown and orange.

They walked up to the counter, and Rick clapped Morty lightly on the back, pretending he didn't see his grandson flinch at the friendly gesture. "H-have - get anything ya want, Morty. My treat, dawg."

Morty looked nervously up at him, then at the menu above the cashier. "I'll- I'll have, um, uhhhh..." In all honesty, it looked like Morty was still on the verge of having another mental breakdown. But instead of bursting into tears on the spot, he said quietly, "... a, uh, a scoop of vanilla, please? In a cup."

Rick wanted to berate Morty and to tell him to live a little, but bit back his thoughts, ordering the same.

Their plain orders were quickly served, money was exchanged, and soon after the pair was sitting at a table in the middle of the shop.

It was an uncomfortable silence, to say the least, and while Rick was moreso just prodding gently at his own dessert, Morty had his hands wrapped around the cup of his, staring woefully at it.

Rick took a mental breath, and started up the conversation again. 

"Morty, about - about earlier-"

"I don't wanna talk a-about it, Rick."

"- about earlier..." he put more emphasis on the words now, "We have to talk about it, man. That - what you did, it - it isn't healthy-"

"Rick," the boy across from him hissed out, giving him a glare.

"Morty," Rick started off, voice low. He stared right into Morty's glare, but instead of returning it, Rick's eyes were sorrowful, a rare sight to see. "I don't know what kind of scars you're hiding from me, but, Morty - I could, I could build a skin grafting machine, or-or-or, something. If you're ashamed or-"

Morty sprung up from the table, his chair screeching across the tile as he banged his hands on the table once, his icecream threatening to topple over. "Y-y-you know what, Rick? I don't need your - your sympathy! O-o-or you to pretend to care for - care a-about me! Because no one does, Rick! So just quit, a-a-and leave me alone!" Before Rick could react, Morty had made his way over to the exit, swinging it open, chimes ringing.

At that moment, his patience bursted, and extreme rage came over Rick, and he couldn't help but retort back to the youth, "Oh, yeah, Morty? W-well, I don't need any of your - any of your pathetic, mopy self, either! So fuck you, chump, see ya in the morgue."

Morty's face flashed hurt, before anger once again showed dominant, and then the bell attached to the door was jingled loudly as the door was harshly shut.

It was too quiet in the shop as Rick realized what he had just done. He laughed once, bitterly, and then gave the employee, who was standing awestruck behind the counter, a withering look as a pained smile graced his lips.

"Me cago en la leche, eh?"

Not looking for any response, he got up, leaving the two icecreams at the table untouched. 

 

Morty was scared.

No, no scratch that, he - he was terrified.

Of course he'd come undone with Rick before, but now was different.

Now he had walked out on him.

And he didn't know what he was going to do next.

But he didn't quit walking. Not even when he heard the tell-tale jingle of the icecream shop behind him once more. Not even as he heard long, quick strides hurrying up to him as he walked down the sidewalk.

It felt good to get angry at someone that wasn't him. It hurt and felt good in the sweetest of ways.

He wanted to cry. But he was too angry for even that.

"Morty!" From almost directly behind him. "Stop!"

Morty started running.


End file.
